"That’s straight," Ned assured him, gloomily. "An’ lookin’ for a job?" asked Buck, quietly. "You bet," was the emphatic reply. "Chesty said as how he used to work for you. Was you foreman?" "I was foreman an’ boss of the NM ranch till them blood-suckers back East druv me off ’n it—d—n ’em." "Boss, was you? Then I reckon you wouldn’t refuse a job as foreman, would you?" Ned’s interest became practical. "Where ’s yore ranch?" he asked, with some show of eagerness. "Why, I was aimin’ to stop ’round here some’rs." "H—l! There ain’t a foot o’ ground within eighty mile o’ where yo ’re sittin’ as ain’t grazed a heap over, less ’n it’s some nester hangin’ on by his fingers an’ toes—an’ blamed few o’ them, neither. Leastaways, none but th’ NM an’ Schatz’s range, which they says belongs to th’ old Double Y, both of ’em." "What’s keepin’ them free?" "’Bout a regiment o’ deputies, I reckon." He smiled grimly. "It’s costin’ ’em somethin’ to keep th’ range free o’ cattle. Mebby you could lease it. That McAllister feller ain’t never goin’ to get a man to run it for long. Some o’ th’ boys is feelin’ mighty sore an’ Schatz is a tough nut. It’s goin’ to be a mighty big job, when he starts, an’ that’s certain." "I ’d like to see it. We ’ll go t’morrow." Buck’s careless defiance of the situation pleased Ned. With the first evidence of good humor he had shown he hit Buck a resounding slap on the back. "That’s you," was his admiring comment. The door opened to admit the short, broad figure of a man who, after a glance around the room, made his bow-legged way to their table. His tone betrayed some anxiety as he asked: "Ned, haf you seen mein Fritz?" "Nope," answered Ned, "I have n’t, Dutch. Hey, boys!" he called, "Anybody seen Pickles?" A chorus of denials arose and Chesty sauntered over to get details. "W’y, you durned ol’ Dutch Onion, you ain’t gone an’ lost him again, have you?" "Ach! Dot leetle _Kobold_! Alvays ven I looks, like a flea he iss someveres else." "How ’d you lose him?" demanded Chesty. Dutch stole a look askance at Ned and turned on Chesty a reproachful face. He laid a glove on the edge of the table. "Dot’s Fritz. I turn ’round, like dot," suiting action to word, in a complete turn, his right hand reaching out, taking up the glove and whirling it behind his back as he faced the table again. He looked at the empty spot with vast surprise, in delicious pantomime. The glove, meanwhile, had fallen against the nose of Bruce, who sniffed at it and then picked it up and carried it to Slick behind the bar, returning to his resting place with the air of a duty accomplished.